


it's hard to look right at you (so here's my number)

by backseats



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Homosexual FaceTime Tension, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backseats/pseuds/backseats
Summary: “Why’d you, like…” Trav tries to kick his brain back into conversation-mode, momentarily distracted by the way Patty’s flushed all the way past his throat, down to the divot of his collarbone. “Why’d you call me, man?”
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 24
Kudos: 381





	it's hard to look right at you (so here's my number)

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer that if you are/know anyone in this please click away. this is not in any way representative of the people mentioned and is purely nonsense spin-off fiction.
> 
> yeah, the title is botched lyrics from a carly rae jepsen song, you read that right. here's the [cover](https://soundcloud.com/kevin-lu-626161287/jpegmafia-call-me-maybe-carly-rae-jepsen-cover) and the other [mood music](https://soundcloud.com/stillhaze/solo-remix) that inspired this disaster, so there's that.
> 
> i'm categorically terrible at writing porn, so if anyone wants to write a spiritual sequel to this where they actually bone, feel totally free to. 
> 
> warning that during the explicit content one person is stoned and the other is sober, so if that makes you uncomfortable it’s probably best that you click away for your own sake. stay safe out there.

Before he leaves, Patty pulls him into a bone-crushing hug by the front door. Trav’s face is squashed into his armpit-chest region and Patty’s suitcase crashes into his left leg with the force of it. It’s one of those four wheel roller ones, and its matte black face is marred up with scuff marks and stupid stickers that are fuzzy with age and crusting off at the edges. Travis kicks meekly at it from where Patty’s huge hands are slapping around at his shoulder blades. He fights off the urge to choke on the thin expanse of deodorant-scented air between them, mumbling a garbled _ “alright, bud” _into the fabric of Pats’ shirt. He’s released only to have Patty slam a hand down on his shoulder, palm at his neck a little. Trav jerks forward in surprise, tries not to lean into the touch too much, urgently wanting to scrabble away from the surging feeling in his abdomen. He can’t believe he got out of bed at six in the morning just to be manhandled by Patty in his own doorway.

“Call me, yeah?” Pats says, peering down at Trav past his nose anxiously like a big scared bird, hair falling all in his eyes and around his chin in soft knotted curls. 

Travis snorts. As _ if _ he’s not gonna call him. “_Obv_iously,” he says, grinning up at him. 

“Or I’ll like—” Patty tucks his thumbs up past his ridiculous elf ears, pushes his hair back behind them so they stand out rosy and pink. “Like, I’ll call you.”

Travis laughs at how stupid he looks, his eyes gone all big and earnest, holographic blue in the wan morning light. “Dude,” Trav wrinkles his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. “Your vibes are all over the place, man.”

“I’m just not, like,” Patty cuts himself off again, messing with the handle of his suitcase. If he clicks that release grip any more roughly, Travis thinks, it’s gonna pop right off. He flicks at Patty’s knuckles, a sharp tap of his index finger across freckled skin. “I dunno. Feels weird, leaving this early. Kinda thought we could hold out for a little longer.”

Trav knows that nothing he says is going to make the lost opportunity sting any less. “I know, man.” He runs his thumb over the spot he just flicked, watches the angry flare of red run back into the creamy hue of Patty’s skin. “I know.”

* * *

Trav sleeps soundly through the rest of the morning, and well into the afternoon, and then promptly wastes his day watching Netflix on his laptop. It’s nearly eight when he finally clicks the screen shut and makes his way to the kitchen. Sue him, it’s the off-season and he’s fucking tired. He’s still got another two days in Philly before he leaves for Ontario, and he feels the time spool past his fingers like warm water, just long stretches of nothing ahead of him. It feels great. Despite all the disappointment of their last season, he can admit that he was burnt out. It feels like he’s earned the rest, the lack of responsibility. 

He thumbs open his phone and sees a text from Patty asking him, rudely, to call him. He squints long and hard at the _ dumbass _ Pats had so graciously included at the end. 

The FaceTime sticks on his frowning face for a couple rings before giving way to the whiny microphone feedback hum and suddenly TK’s screen is full of Patty. 

He’s perched on a wooden bench in a dinky little fishing boat, knees all crowded up by his chest and his hair held out of his eyes by a beige baseball cap with squiggly letters that Travis can’t make out embroidered on the front. His phone is propped up on the opposite seat, Travis supposes, because it’s swaying back and forth in time with the gentle rock of the water. Patty’s gap-tooth grinning down at it like TK’s just told him there was a mistake, actually, and it turns out they _ did _ win the Cup this year despite not even making it into the first round of playoffs. 

Trav laughs stupidly, snorting out his nose. “_Dude. _I leave you alone for one day and you turn into Bear fuckin’ Grylls.”

Incredulously Patty’s smile widens, deepens the crinkles by his eyes. “Fuck _ off,_ man.”

“How’s Winnipeg, dumbass?” Trav says, shoving his phone up to stand against his depleted fruit bowl as he rummages around in the fridge for leftovers. 

“Great, man. My sister got me this,” Pats says, and Travis looks up to see him taking the hat off and shaking his hair out like something out of a Pantène commercial. Trav tries to school his face into something that doesn’t blatantly say _ rail me._ Patty helps him out by thrusting the cap forward so it fills the screen, all embroidery and half of Pats’ bigass thumb. “Pretty funny.”

It reads _ ‘women want me, fish fear me’ _in blocky capital letters, and Travis can’t help but make an incredulous face at Pats when he pushes his hair back to slide the cap on again. 

“Pretty sure the first part isn’t all that accurate.”

“Fuck _ you_, man, I get all the girls.”

TK doesn’t dignify that flat out lie with an answer and goes back to foraging through his fridge like some sort of starving raccoon. He can hear the hush of water lapping against the side of Patty’s boat, can hear the wood creaking and shifting. It’s nice. They’ve always been good at companionable silences. Patty’s squinting past his phone to look at the horizon when Travis returns with a container of cold Pad Thai, trying to balance his phone on the coffee table and not get the angle all weird so Pats isn’t staring up his nose the entire time. 

“Feels kind of weird being home,” Patty says pensively, still looking across the water. Behind him the sky has blossomed into a mix of washed-out reds and waxy yellows, backlighting the edges of Patty’s hair and lighting it up gold. Trav knows not to press him when he’s being all maudlin and shit, knows he’ll explain himself if Travis gives him enough time to work through it in his head. He shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth. 

“It’s like…” he’s still looking away, eyes glancing at something Travis can’t see. “Feels like I’m a teenager again or somethin’. I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

Trav’s scoff finds a way past his food. “I think that’s called nostal-_ia._”

Patty’s eyes whip back to his phone screen. “It’s _ no_stal_gia, _moron.”

Travis shrugs. “Same difference.”

“It’s _definitely_ _not _the same difference, Teeks.”

* * *

Travis wakes up in the middle of the night to the side of his face vibrating. When the grogginess subsides he peels his face up from where it’d been smushed into his pillow and digs his phone out from underneath. Patty’s face stares back at him. It’s a photo from last winter, Pats giving a gloved thumbs up wearing a ridiculous plaid, fur-lined hunting hat and pretending to lick a frozen lamppost. His cheeks are even more flushed than usual from the snow, and he has that look in his eye that always gets Travis to do stupid shit, all impish mischief and crinkly grins. He stabs at the green circle in the corner of his screen and tries to knuckle the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Pa-atty, man, what fuckin’ time’s it?”

“Like, three forty or somethin’.” 

Travis rolls around a little so he can flick his light on, being intentionally careless with his phone because he knows Patty hates the sound of him dragging the microphone across his the fabric of his crushed up sheets. Serves him right for waking him up. 

“What the fuck you doin’ anyway—” he starts, before actually looking at his screen and realising what he’s seeing. Patty’s head is bent over a brightly coloured piece, dwarfed in one of his huge palms. The flame of his lighter flares up horribly on the FaceTime camera, sending a line of white-hot light searing across the middle of his screen for a second. He’s shirtless, hair loose and fanned out across his shoulders, a wave swinging free to obscure his brow, brushing up against his knuckles where he’s holding the lighter. Travis swallows. “Right.”

Patty tips his throat back to inhale, eyes closed and eyebrows raised like this is a casual and normal thing, like that one movement isn’t fucking _obscene _and going to stick to the inside of Travis’ brain for the rest of the week. He holds it in his lungs for a second, and in the silence Travis can hear the low mumble of something that sounds a lot like an old WWE rerun blaring in the background. Patty smiles around the exhale, thick smoke curling in tendrils through parted lips and shiny teeth. Travis is going to like, drop dead on the spot or something. 

“Why’d you, like…” Trav tries to kick his brain back into conversation-mode, momentarily distracted by the way Patty’s flushed all the way past his throat, down to the divot of his collarbone. “Why’d you call me, man?” He asks, scrubbing a hand across his face. His phone is propped up against his lamp, and he draws his knees up close to his chest, pushing back the swathe of duvet that was draped across his shoulders. His hair probably looks fucked up, he thinks. 

Patty shrugs a little, staring super intently at his phone. His eyelids are low, irises dark under his eyelashes. Travis wonders how long he’s been smoking for. “Dunno,” he says, and his voice sounds completely wrecked. “Like hangin’ out with you when I smoke.” He always talks slowly, but when he’s high it’s like molasses, low and steady and throaty.

“Are you watchin’ _ Monday Night Raw _, man?”

Patty laughs a little, shoulders rising up and then down, down, down as he sinks lower where he’s perched on the end of his bed. His boxers have some sort of inscrutable pattern on them, but Travis drags his eyes away from _ that _disaster waiting to happen before things spiral even more out of his control. 

“Yea-ah, man. The Undertaker,” is all Pats says, still staring at his screen, eyes raking up and down. Travis feels oddly exposed, laid bare under the pixelated smoulder of Patty’s gaze through his screen. His fingers twitch up to the collar of his t-shirt, stretched out and chewed to shit, the cotton rippled and thin. Patty’s eyes follow the movement, dipping low to bounce across Trav’s thighs. 

Travis swallows around the lump in his throat, mouth dry as fucking sandpaper. His own eyes pinball across Patty’s wall, darting across the jumble of old NHL posters. Nineties relics with their eyebrows low over intense stares, legs frozen in Bambi-like contortions as they cut through the ice with purpose. 

Patty’s voice rumbles over the speaker of Trav’s phone. “Y’know man, sometimes it’s hard to look at you when you’re like, right in front of me.”

Travis’ eyes snap back to Patty, where he’s running a hand through his hair and staring up at his ceiling. “What, dude?” he asks, as Pats chortles a dumb little laugh.

“No, like, I mean… in real life,” he says slowly, working through his thoughts as he says them out loud. His eyes are low again, hooded and dark when they refocus on the screen of his phone. “When I look at you, it’s hard for me not to like…” he runs his gaze down Trav’s body again, zoning in at his throat. “Hard for me not to _ do _ somethin’.”

Travis scratches a hand roughly across the back of his neck, trying to push away the hot flush that feels like it’s blooming across his entire body. There’s a long beat of silence, just the warbly American accent of the WWE commentator talking briskly in the background and the swish of Patty moving pillows around behind his back. Travis shifts on his bed, heaves a lungful of stuffy, sleep-smelling air and impulsively makes a bad decision. He stares into Bobby Clarke’s toothless smile on the ancient poster above Patty’s head and shoots a quick apology up to the Hockey Hall of Fame-ers for doing this in front of them. 

His voice comes out rough, just barely above a whisper. “What would you do?”

Patty stops messing with the pillows. The hushed roars and whistles from the TV crowd reach a crescendo as he slowly leans back and tips his head to the side, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “What, like, if you were here with me right now?”

Travis doesn’t think he can speak without embarrassing himself more than he already has, so he just nods mutely, trying to force himself to stare at Patty’s face and not like, anything else he has going on. He fails miserably. 

The silence stretches long between them, and Travis thinks his heart’s gonna beat right out of his fucking chest. 

Patty swallows, and Trav’s traitorous eyes skip across his bobbing Adam’s apple. “I’d get my hands all over you. All’up in your stupid hair. Rough you up a little.” 

Travis stares at pixelated Patty on the FaceTime screen, his perpetually serious expression dimmed by heavy eyelids and the soft set of his mouth. He clears his throat awkwardly, lets his eyes linger on wide thighs and the dark inky lines of scattered tattoos. “Yeah?”

“Yea-ah,” Patty says, draws the word out slow and low. He shifts on the bed, angles his legs a little wider apart. Travis feels himself lean in closer to his phone, eyes tracing the blooming flush across Patty’s chest. He heaves a huge breath, leans back with his hands behind his head. “Getcha pantin’ until you’re so hard you’re beggin’ me for it.”

Travis pushes a short, sharp breath out through his nose. Patty’s talking in his flat, monotonous press junket tone, but there’s something else there, an edge to his voice that rumbles and rolls through the inside of Travis’ head and shoots straight down to his dick. Patty’s tongue snakes out to swipe at his lower lip, and the softly wet sound of it makes something warm spark and fizzle around in Trav’s abdomen. 

“You’re so fuckin’ _ loud _, man,” Patty says. “Always chirpin’ and breakin’ shit.” His hands slide down the back of his neck before coming back up, arms flexing as they settle behind him so he can prop himself up behind his nest of cushions. “You need somebody to calm you down.”

Travis tries for cocky. “And you’re gonna calm me down, eh?” It comes out a little breathless. 

Patty shrugs, vaguely affirmative. “Only ‘cause I know I’m the only one who can.”

Travis becomes acutely aware of Patty’s hard-on jutting out against his boxers. 

“I’d treat you real good_ , _” he says, and Travis thinks he sees his hips shift a little on the bed sheets. “Never fuckin’ take my hands off you.”

A blustery sigh rockets out of Travis’ lungs, and he looks up to the smooth white expanse of his ceiling for a second just so he doesn’t explode because of all the blood rushing to his dick. He doesn’t think when he says it, it just kind of tumbles out of him in a moment of blind horniness. 

Patty startles a little, a spasm running through his right hand and rumpling the sheets in the corner of the FaceTime screen. “What?”

“Sometimes I, uh, I think about, like, your hands. How big they are.” Travis clears his throat, forces himself to look into the lens of the camera. “Want you to touch me all over, all the time.”

Patty’s tongue darts out again, one quick velvety movement. “I can rough you up real good with my hands if you want, baby,” he says, and Trav immediately feels like his brain is spiralling out of his body and into outer space. 

There’s a lull in the conversation for a minute, just the sounds of the TV and the low sounds of their irregular heavy breathing, just slightly out of sync. Patty says, “how’ve I never fuckin’ kissed you before,” and it’s more of an observation than a real question. 

Travis stares. “I think about kissing you a lot.” He isn’t even aware he’s saying it before he hears it echo around his empty bedroom, but once it’s out he can’t take it back. 

“_Fuck_,” Patty says as he melts against the cushions on his bed and lets his head fall back to expose the milky column of his throat, peppered with pinked up blotches. “What have we been _ doing_?” He says, and there’s genuine devastation in his voice. 

Travis shuffles forward a little, head swimming like he’s the one who’s stoned. “I fly out on Tuesday,” he says nonsensically.

Patty’s head darts up so fast that Travis thinks he sees his eyes spin like a slot machine at the casino. “Come out to the cabin. After all your family shit.”

“Yeah,” Travis says. 

Patty nods, just _ yeah _ and _ yeah _ and _ yeah_, both of them staring into each other’s eyes through an LED screen, not acknowledging what just happened but knowing that it changes things in some essential way. 

“Not to be too forward or anything bro, but I’m gonna go jerk off in the shower probably,” Patty says, and maybe things haven’t changed that much.


End file.
